Can't go back
by holding-out
Summary: five years after the war, the gundam pilots have split and the world has forgotten them. assassination attempts abound as one by one they're targetted for gruesome death. can any good come of this? r/r. i need suggestions.
1. Exodus

Can't Go Back  
  
Chapter One-Exodus  
  
I don't own Gundam Wing, which you know and I'm not sure who does. I hope this story gets lots of reviews but I don't have my hopes up too high. I'll try to figure out where I'm going with this before everyone gets mad at me, so, until then, adieu. ~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~: ~  
  
Hong Kong was quiet on the night he left it, quieter than he'd heard the cold, busy city to ever be before. The traffic still rushed, but slowly, like a tired river of red and amber lights, occasional bikers peddling silently, but for the soft clacking of their gears changing and their wheels whirring.  
  
He stepped out of his apartment with a small bag on his shoulder and a covered fishbowl under his arm, locking the door behind him with difficulty. He walked down the hall in silence, not bothering to try for something he'd always possessed, listening to the loud and muffled snores that crept through the walls, the crying of a baby heard and quickly shushed in the apartment on the corner at his right, the gentle, steady whir of air conditioning passing through the heating ducts.  
  
He kicked his key under the landlord's door, not bothering to knock, not willing to spend another minute in the place where he had felt himself stagnating for so long. He passed through the last hall, ignoring the peeling paint, and the light that flickered above his head, apparently unaware of the disorder of the place, yet more conscious of it than he would have liked anyone to know. A deep contempt made itself known in his eyes, yet was as closely concealed as his pride would allow.  
  
His hand touched the sticky, bacteria-infested knob once more as he pushed open the last door, and for a moment he looked back down the dumpy, badly lit hallway, disgust making itself plain on his bold features, and then the door was closed and he heard the lock click behind him, a knell of finality that he didn't cringe to hear. He nonchalantly wiped his hand off on his dark pants, as though by long habit, obliterating the last proof of his presence in the place.  
  
With brisk but cautious steps he walked around the compound, his fishbowl sloshing every stride, the fish looking worriedly around it at the dark and mysterious outside world. He stopped by the street, watching, waiting, raising his hand finally as he hiked up the bag on his shoulder to hail a late taxi which slowed and lurched to a stop. He opened the door, without looking back and ducked in, making sure not to dump his fish on the interior. Giving brief instructions to the driver, he stared out the window at the quiet, beautiful city.  
  
His mind was a mesh of feelings and memories, without organization, without coherency, without words to tie anything together. Myths and morals and visions of sadism swam unchecked through his mind without separation, yet all were dim in comparison to his overpowering feeling of restlessness. He shook his head, and for an instant, an expression of ferocity marked his features. The future had seemed so pure, so fresh, so hopeful, and he had given his all to make it a reality. All that time, all the suffering and moralizing, all the pain he'd known for the sake of this future, and it had all been forgotten. And time had gone on regardless, leaving him behind without a pause, just as it always had.  
  
Had it all been a dream? Or a nightmare more like. The people outside his window had not known his pain. To them, the war was just the past. To them, it was just a rumor they'd once heard, without any serious consequences, to be forgotten the minute the whole thing was adequately "cleared up". It wasn't a dream. He knew that. He had the scars to prove it, the nightmares, the unshakeable feeling of separation that it caused. The rest of the population was just crazy. Even now, looking out the window of the cab he could see traces of it in red anti-war graffiti on a dark building, a homeless man with only one leg begging for money on the street corner, a pile of old rubble where a corporate building had once stood. But no one stopped to pay deference to these relics. No one cared. No one remembered. How could they be so stupid?  
  
His personality, though cold and disinterested by nature had now become hardened to a fine contempt for his fellow man. He didn't speak to them, didn't associate with them, didn't even seem to see them, just as they didn't seem to see the relics of their past.  
  
That was what he was, wasn't it? That was why he'd spent the last five years moving from place to place without love for anyone or anything, living in one slum after another. All that...  
  
So this was what he'd shed his blood for. This was what he had tortured himself over, trying to moralize, trying to understand humanity's unquenchable lust for the blood of its children. Great. Just great. All that and it didn't even matter, just as Mariemaia had said. Ironic. Man had a habit of forgetting terrible things. It was a coping mechanism and a double-edged knife. It was one of the great things about man, that they could pick up the pieces of life and create new and innovative possibilities after tragedy and death, yet their forgetfulness inevitably led to the same mistakes, the same horrors. Man was stupid. Man was lucky to have the attention span of a golden retriever.  
  
'But you knew all that, didn't you? You, a great scholar and warrior of your time, you knew there was no turning back once you'd chosen your path. You knew what the consequences would be. You knew.... You knew you'd probably never find peace again after she...' he let the thought slip away from him. It was so easy to do now, so necessary.  
  
'I knew. I know. I didn't ask for a second chance. I didn't ask for peace because I know the world I live in. But that doesn't mean I don't desire it. I just didn't think I'd last this long. What do I do now? I hate this place. But where can I go from here?'  
  
He shook his head slightly, coming out of his reverie as he felt the car slow and lurch to a stop. Throwing some cash at the driver, he left his change and walked towards the sliding glass doors of the shuttle-port. He paid for his ticket with cash, just as he paid for everything, resolving his destination in his head and trying to avoid eye-contact with the young lady at the counter who was desperately trying to catch his attention, batting her eye-lashes and leaning over the counter, etc. Turning away, he found a seat to wait in, setting his disoriented fish on the plywood table in front of him, slopping water accidentally on last month's issue of "SciN dEp" magazine. His fish looked at him dully as if blaming him for this sudden contact with such a frivolous excuse for wasted paper, successfully mimicking the fifteen-year-old or so girl who sat across from him, who now leaned back from her attempt to save the magazine from it's fate. He ignored her.  
  
Leaning back, he thought about the events that had led to this. After the war, he had stayed on Earth, working with the Preventers, putting out fires as they sprung up, often side-by-side with Zechs Marquise and Lucrezia Noin and Lady Une herself. Funny that he would be working for peace with the people he had been out to destroy less than a year prior. And fitting. The souls of these people were different, were beautiful as only those who had faced death could be. They didn't talk about the war, but they respected each other for it. They held a bond between them, between the ones who had hurt and killed each other so many times, deeper than family. It was understanding. It was compassion without words, without pity.  
  
Chang had made a point of never interfering in other peoples' business, but he had learned from rumors and talk around the proverbial coffee maker that Zechs and Noin had split up after a clean-up mission two years ago. Zechs- Milliardo-had been wounded badly, and for a while they treated each other coldly, until Une had sent them to separate locations, two different fires that could only do with their expertise. They were understaffed and no two people of their expertise remained together. He had been split with Sally for the same reason, just as they were beginning to understand each other more fully. Nothing stayed the same. He was reminded of Robert Frost's poem "Nothing Gold Can Stay", a favorite of his despite its origin:  
"Nature's first green is gold,/  
  
Her hardest hue to hold./  
  
Her early leaf's a flower;/  
  
But only so an hour./  
  
Then leaf subsides to leaf./  
  
So Eden sank to grief,/  
  
So dawn goes down to day./  
  
Nothing gold can stay." It was fitting. It was all fitting. Everything came to an end, especially that which was folly in the first place. And that's all it was. It was the Barton Foundation's folly which had gotten him involved in the first place, the preposterous idea to drop a colony on the earth. He was reconciled with that now, with their egotistical folly, their idea that they were the inheritors of the earth, the rightful heirs. It was ridiculous. He felt himself growing angry just thinking about it and took a deep breath. I'm over it. It's past and it's been fixed. It's over. It's all over now. We have peace now and it's all over. After a half hour of brooding, a woman's voice over the intercom announced the boarding of his flight. He stood gracefully, gathering his fish in the meantime and commenced standing in line to wait to board the shuttle, coldly staring down an over-done stewardess who dared attempt to make the poor animal spend the ride with "the other baggage". Not an un-gentleman- like word had ever passed his lips before and none would now, but that didn't keep him from thinking that they had very different ideas of what was baggage as he passed his eyes over her sticky red lipstick and orange mask-like foundation. Instead of getting her wish, she was forced to compromise, wrapping the bowl up in multiple plastic bags so that the animal was not even visible as a fish anymore but as a vague brush-stroke of color under a veritable wad of plastic bags.  
  
Finally boarding the shuttle, he forgot about the stewardess, past and future as his watch marked four a.m. His eyes closed peacefully, the first time in a long time, as they exited the atmosphere. A profound silence enclosed the ship, the only sounds being the muffled coughs and murmurs of the people around him as they drifted off to sleep. He smiled through his dark lashes, his fish on his lap, an elderly woman snoring on his right, remembering the loneliness of space that had once been his home.  
  
* * * * *  
  
He awakened to the sound of frantic talking. It didn't make sense to his sleep-fogged senses and he opened his eyes, looking for the speaker. They rested on the TV just visible over the back of the seat ahead of him. The man had been watching it when he had fallen asleep and it was tuned into the news. He sat up straighter as he watched.  
  
The Chinese reporter wore a red pantsuit and a tasteful amount of makeup. She was standing in front of a flaming apartment building, and it was her frantic, yet politely controlled voice, which had aroused Chang from his rest. He blinked tiredly, and was about to return to sleep when the Stewardess spotted him and started asking him, in a soft whisper, whether he would like another pillow or a non-alcoholic beverage. He shifted comfortably and replied no thank you. She smiled at him and left. 'Hmmm. I wonder if they've spread the news that there's a crazy man on board who refuses to be separated from his gold-fish.' He smiled and was about to close his eyes again when the voice of the reporter caught his attention.  
  
"Authorities aren't yet positive of the cause of the explosion but it's believed to be a gas-leak in an apartment on the ground floor. Thankfully the residents are out of town. The explosion, however, seems to have also demolished the apartments adjacent to the left and above, killing a woman whose name has not yet been released. Firefighters are now searching the above rooms, but the bodies of the residents have not yet been found. We will keep you posted as more information presents itself."  
  
"Thank you Chao." The man was handsome and had a vacant grin, but Chang didn't see it. 'That was my apartment building. That was the apartment just below mine. And they're searching for my body. Completely demolished, killed old Mrs. Ling in 201 with her soap opera preoccupation and her cat Sylvester. But she'll be with her husband.'  
  
He retained his composure easily enough but his spine tingled and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. 'Could it have been a coincidence? Could it have been just a simple gas leak? Is that possible, or would I be a fool to take the simple answer? Yes. Perhaps it is nothing, or perhaps it is everything. Perhaps I left just in time.'  
  
He could feel his pulse pounding in his throat, and his nostrils flared. But he shook his head and shifted his posture, trying to get comfortable in the cramped seat with a fish on his lap. He probably looked very undignified, but it didn't matter; the shuttle was dark anyway. Determinedly, he closed his eyes, knowing that staying awake for the eight- hour flight would not help him. As he waited for sleep he thought.  
  
'I cannot contact HQ while in route. I will call them the minute we land. For now I will sleep, and then, when I have rested adequately I will determine the likeliness of coincidence and the course of action most liable to succeed. If some cowards decided to blow me up as I slept I will find them and tear them to pieces. And then I will eat lunch, but this time I will make sure it is a respectable establishment. The Preventers pay unjustifiably low wages, but I can afford that.' He smiled to himself, content that he could do no more, unless he were to hijack the shuttle. 'Good thing I didn't tell anyone I was leaving, and thus didn't tell where I was going or what flight I was going to be on. Good thing, likewise, that I have no one to talk to. Saved me a lot of trouble. Good thing that I always use aliases and pay with cash. Hmmm, I always knew it was good to be cautious.' With that thought he slept, a feeling of contentment washing unnoticed through his body.  
  
~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~: ~:~ I've changed everything, so I hope everyone is rereading this. And I hope that anyone who does read this will review. I've put a lot of time into it, and I think it turned out pretty well. Any suggestions? I'm open. 


	2. Bastards

Can't Go Back  
  
Chapter Two-Bastards  
  
Note: I've changed the timeline from when I first started posting this story. In fact, I've changed just about everything from the first time I posted this. I hope you'll reread it, or you'll miss a lot of changes. I figured it would be a good point in their lives to get a bit of adrenaline back in their blood.  
  
I don't own Gundam Wing, which you know and I'm not sure who does. I hope this story gets lots of reviews but I don't have my hopes up too high. I'll try to figure out where I'm going with this before everyone gets mad at me, so, until then, adieu. ~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~: ~  
  
Running through the campus, the dashing young man in black waved at friends and professors as he sped past, receiving smiles and kind greetings from everyone he saw. He was late, naturally. His Business Theory (1) test was going to start in less than fifteen minutes, and he had a mile and a half yet to run (cars were frowned upon on campus). However, daunting as that was, he was not afraid.  
  
He wasn't afraid of much.  
  
Whoever thought that it was a good idea to have tests of any kind at 8 o'clock in the morning was seriously mistaken. And his roommate was going to have to watch his back for some truly frightening practical jokes, recompense for unplugging the alarm clock. And they would be frightening, he decided with an abrupt nod. Truly frightening. Perhaps Nads in his shampoo? Nah-that one could come back to haunt him. Hmmm.. Perhaps a sudden theft? He generally prowled the town on Thursday nights and thus needed his car-yet without that car, said running, dashingly handsome roommate would be stuck with his shallow although perfectly friendly company for more time than was perhaps healthy. However.. He pushed his legs harder, hitting the graveled walks with the balls of his feet, barely skimming the earth as he flew to his destination, his hair whipping behind him like a shadow, like the tail of a hawk speeding over the earth, towards his class, towards his prey, towards the Business Theory Classroom like a raging angel of test-taking mastery.  
  
But perhaps if he just roughed him up a bit...? Today was Friday. He hadn't come back to the room last night, so it was likely enough he'd gotten drunk and wouldn't remember anything at all about the night before. It would be a pretty bad shock if he, say, found something both foul and suspicious in the spacious back-seat of his cherished Mercury, something which he had perhaps never had anything to do with, or perhaps would arouse guilt and horror and total nervous paranoia? That was about right. All he'd need was some mayonnaise, a pink leather thong, some tacky perfume and.  
  
He slowed as he reached the building, his good mood once again restored, greeting some kids that sat smoking on the front steps, and they waved and offered him a smoke. He declined and they nodded and shrugged carelessly, forgetting him as they were once again consumed by their nicotine fixation. Bounding up the stairs four at a time, he arrived at his class just as the door was opened and the quirky professor welcomed his students into his much-less-quirky abode.  
  
Breathing quickly but lightly, he drew his arm across his forehead, and shook his head sorrowfully when he saw the thin layer of clean sweat. He was out of shape. Darn.  
  
Shaking his head, he entered the classroom, grinning at his teacher and winking cheekily at the shy girl next to him. She blinked and stuttered and blushed and then did her best to hide behind a veritable wall of dark brown hair, sneaking glances at him through her long, un-mascara-ed eyelashes. Content, he sat down to take his test, confident, relaxed, and totally unlike most of his classmates. They didn't have the vaguest idea of stress. They generally thought he was out of his mind, didn't care about classes, and was retaking all his credits again next semester.  
  
He generally thought they were just wussy.  
  
They thought he couldn't take the pressure, what with his carefully measured carelessness and the fact that he had yet to be seen in a late- night study session in the library. 'He just couldn't handle the stress.'  
  
Try blowing up an Oz base with little or no information, finding out that they have over triple the number of mobile suits they were supposed to and then being suddenly informed that the whole thing was just a setup in the first place. Or how about shooting the bad guy and then realizing that he was the good guy but with a fetish for killing pacifists. Or threatening to kill them more like. Now that was a stressful/embarrassing situation!  
  
A test was slid down to him and he began half-heartedly to fill in the answers in a crooked but legible scrawl. His mind wasn't on Business Theory-he would have been worried if it was. But he was agitated. He felt tense for some reason he couldn't explain, a fact proven by his desire to get back at his roommate. Usually he wouldn't even care about the alarm clock, wouldn't even remember it after the moment, but it just seemed another little thing, another tiny insignificant little detail just a little bit off from the way it ought to be. He was in a box, a box that was getting smaller every day, without explanation or relief. The people here were slow and loose, with tiny problems and quirks that drove him to distraction. His roommate was a total slob, although by civilian standards he was tidy enough. He didn't make his bed and left a trail of candy wrappers and cracker crumbs wherever he went. He spent more time spiking his hair and making what he imagined were suave expressions in the mirror than it took Duo to wash, dress, braid his hair and straighten his side of the room.  
  
As much as he hated to admit it, life had become drab and monotonous. There was no longer any color, any beauty. There was no longer any awe for him in these long lazy days of safe and innocuous civilian activities. He was grateful, of course, that he no longer had to fight and kill, but there had been a sense of purpose underneath the bloodshed, of understanding when all the world was chaos, of acceptance. He had known, then, his purpose; he had recognized death and had stood and watched it with open, unflinching eyes and had gone to meet it when he could. He had been a part of something truly worthy, fighting to give freedom and peace to all the people of the earth and the colonies.  
  
He had never expected to have to deal with peace himself.  
  
They had always said, "when this is all over." but none of them had ever expected to live that long, except maybe Quatre. None of them had had anything really waiting for or dependent on them. And now they were dispersed like smoke on the breeze, like the great things of the past were gone, had never been. And now he was just another college kid, partying and studying for a degree in just another major that he didn't really want. He'd just done it for the kicks, to become integrated back into the system, to have a degree and get on with his life.  
  
His pencil glided over the paper smoothly, but his eyes weren't occupied with the questions. His long lashes half covered his clouded eyes, and his face was relaxed out of its customary grin.  
  
After the detonation of Deathscythe he had hitched a shuttle back to L2 and went to high school for two years. His college classmates would have been surprised to know that he had passed with a full 26 credits in a two-year period. They would have been even further surprised to know it was with a 3.962 GPA (damn that art class!). He had chosen a University on Earth just because Earth seemed the hotspot of everything that occurred with any importance to the human race.  
  
That, and it was more likely he'd meet a few * ahem * colleagues if he remained on the same planet as a certain pacifist kingdom.  
  
But it had been five years. The war was over, the uprisings were infrequent, and the human population seemed to have finally tamed down and embraced the peace that was its inheritance. The war was over.  
  
Trieze was dead, Mariemaia was finished, and Queen Relena was queen only in memory. His friends were gone, his past was gone, and he was just another college student. It had been five years and no one had come looking for him. He didn't relish the idea of an uprising, and it was probably too soon to tell whether it was all over, but he wondered about them none-the- less, where they were, who they were, if they were alive.  
  
Answering the last question with a flourish, he stood and walked down the terraced row to the front of the class and handed his test to the quirky Professor Lubeck, feeling nonthreatening eyes on the back of his neck, feeling his braid swish back and forth like a pendulum. He turned to look at them and a few pairs of friendly, uninterested eyes smiled back at him and returned to their tests. He shook his head and turned to walk out of the room, back to his dorm, or maybe the Student Rec Center for basketball. He noticed the shy girl get up with her test out of the corner of his eye, looking proud of her achievement. She looked him in the eye proudly, her sudden sense of equality making her bold. 'Good for her.'  
  
He walked through the door, down the stairs, down the now-empty front steps and across the lawn towards the Rec. Center. And then he stopped. He didn't really want to play basketball. What he really wanted was to blow something up, the concentration, the suspense, the adrenaline pumping through his blood. he grinned. Maybe not. But then again, he had chemistry later. That could be interesting. Still smiling, he made his way to his dorm room.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The door of his room was open when he got there. 'Well, well, well. Guess the prodigal wildchild of room E23 decided to return. Poor slob, probably so drunk he forgot to shut the door. Ah well, he's probably got a pretty impressive hangover. That's enough punishment for anybody.' He pushed the door open the rest of the way and walked in, taking in the sight of his roomy sprawled across his bed, fully clothed, his collar smeared with an impressive collage of different shades of lipstick. 'Huh. Girls. Don't know what they see in him.' he shook his head, and tried to refrain from laughing.  
  
Seeing his roommate that way, he forgot about his revenge. 'He really isn't so bad for a spike-headed slob. I'm actually gettin' to be pretty fond of him. Hope he doesn't throw up. I'd hate to have to hurt him.' He smiled again. He wouldn't really hurt his roommate, but it reminded him of Heero, so casually threatening. his smile faded and he sighed. 'This just isn't my day. Don't know why I'm in such a funk. Nothin' special about today, but it's been five years. I hope they're alive. I wish I could get the news on this crappy television.'  
  
Once again depressed he turned on the TV and plugged in the Nintendo (2), clicking away at buttons, successfully blowing up aliens and enemy spies. 'And they wonder why we get into giant robots and kill people. Duh! We, the innocent children of modern man have become inured to violence through the evil medium that is the media. Because of this game "Evil Space Ninjas From the Planet Zorgog IV I will feel absolutely no remorse the next time I am forced to blow up a mutant ninja who is intent on impregnating the president's daughter. Oh darn.' From the bed, Rick moaned, and Duo paused his game to stare at him, pasting on a cheesy grin just in case. But he didn't move. Shrugging, he went back to the game.  
  
He made it all the way to level five before he started to worry. 'Exactly what did that guy drink?' Pushing Pause again, he walked over to where Rick lay prone on his stomach, and rolled him onto his side. Every idiot knows not to let a drunk man lay on his back. Or was it his stomach? No matter.  
  
Rick didn't look too good. His skin had a yellow tint to it, with gray-red circles around his eyes. And his face was clammy. Grabbing a plastic Taco Noches glass, Duo ran down the hall to the bathroom. Dumping the remains of Doctor Pepper into a sink, he filled it with cool water and ran back again, managing not to dump it down the front of his pants. Taking a paper towel, he wetted it and began dabbing at Rick's forehead. He remembered hearing once that wetting someone's hands woke them quickly; he took Rick's left hand and began dabbing at it with the cool damp paper towel. Rick moaned, and he took that as a good sign.  
  
Reaching for his right hand, Duo paused. Rick was loosely gripping a piece of paper. He pried it out of his fingers, knowing it was probably some poor girl's phone number, and continued to wet his hands and face, satisfied when Rick made a noise. He worked at it for a long time, with no startling improvements, and then he began to worry again.  
  
Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed his cell phone and called the emergency hotline.  
  
"Yeah, my name's Duo, I'm over here at the college and my roommate just got back from a night on the town. Drinking? Yes, I think so. Yes, he's over twenty-one. No, it's not a crime to drink off school grounds. But. look, lady, I think my buddy's really in a bad way, and if you wouldn't mind, I think he should go to the hospital. No, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job. Look, the guy's a funny color and he won't wake up. Do you want to wait until something serious happens? Fine. I'm in Waseta Hall, room E23. Thank you. I'm going now. Yes, alright. I'll be here. Fine. Ok. Goodbye lady." With an incredulous scowl, he pushed end. 'That. that. that.. ARGH!!!'  
  
Then the paper caught his eye, a word was all and it attracted his attention. Snatching it off the nightstand, he pulled it flat and read it quickly.  
  
The world stopped. His eyes widened and he couldn't breathe. Anger made him larger than he was, and he almost snarled. And then he shoved it in his pocket and stood up, and steel (or Gundanium?) became visible in his soft violet eyes. His classmates wouldn't know him now.  
  
With a surge of resolution, he lifted the larger, heavier Ricky off the bed and carried him out of the room, down four flights of stairs and onto the front steps, just as the ambulance whined it's way up the drive. He gave them a nervous smile as they strapped poor Ricky onto the stretcher and politely answered their questions, charming them out of any suspicions they may have had. He shook his head as they sped away and made his way back up to his room.  
  
Opening the paper he read it one more time:  
  
"Dear Mr. Maxwell, congratulations on escaping justice for the last five years. We sincerely hope they've been enjoyable, and that you have adequately cleared your conscience before meeting your maker. But you don't believe in that, correct? Feel free to run, and hide, and even lie if you think it will help you. It won't. We're watching, and don't particularly like what we see. See you soon."  
  
Shaking with fury he crumpled it up and stuffed it in his mouth, chewing it with relish. 'Don't like what you see, huh?' He was tempted to open the window and moon whoever was "watching." 'Bastards. Just a lot of bastards. Can't I live in peace? Can't you just get it in your heads, you lost? I'm the good guy, can't you figure that out? Threaten me, will you. You bastards.' Swallowing, he continued to swear in his head, actually enjoying the feeling of energy that rushed through his body. 'Bastards. I'm just a kid trying to get a good education. What's so wrong in that? There are lots of former soldiers in college; why do you gotta go pick on me? Bastards.'  
  
Tossing his hair over his shoulder, he dragged his emergency cash supply out from under the lining of his dresser, tossing black clothes in a heap. Over ten thousand dollars in hundred and fifty dollar bills, all at the generous expense of Oz. Lady Une never did find out what happened to it. Probably assumed it was put to some good use or other. But that's bureaucracy for you. He put the money in his shoes and rolled it up into the thick plaits of his hair, even tucked some into the loose lining of his spring jacket. It was thick enough that it didn't crackle when he moved.  
  
Now he was ready. Now he could up and split at any time without a problem. But he didn't want to. 'Nope. No can do sirree. This is my college, and that is my roommate that you just poisoned. If I run now the cops'll think I had something to do with it, no doubt about it. And I really would hate for Ricky to have to get a new roommate so late in the year. But don't think I'm gonna make it easy for you bastards. You want to pick a fight with Duo Maxwell, be ready to face the God of Death.'  
  
Notes: (1) I am not in college and I have absolutely no idea what one would take their third year of college. I'm thinking Duo is a business major because it's not a hard major and he's a genius anyway and can succeed no matter what he does or what he majors in. Those are my reasons. I think you understand.  
  
(2) I don't know what will be modern in this era, but let's just say Duo has the top of the line Video Game entertainment system. 


	3. The Face of Evil

Can't Go Back  
  
Chapter Three-I have seen the face of evil.  
  
Warning: this chapter is going to be very very long. Sorry. I hope you like it though. It took a lot of time.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anything at all. Does Bandai own Gundam Wing? Oh well, it was worth a shot.  
  
AN: hey everybody. I need suggestions. Don't be shy, come on up and place your bets in the suggestions box.  
  
~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~: ~:~:~:~:~:~  
  
The busy executive stood picturesquely before a large glass window, overlooking his wide and multifarious domain. He wore a fine black suit with a plain black tie of the purest exported silk, a wristwatch with diamonds on the minute and hour hands, and tasseled shoes. His feathery blond hair was gelled respectably back except for a few rebellious strands which fell in his eyes, giving him a debonair look reminiscent of the late Treize Kushrenada.  
  
He had grown in the last five years, had grown into a slender man with thoughtful eyes and a perpetually contemplative air, as though he were weighing the most tactful way to go about eating his salad at dinner or stomping out the small, beggarly competitive company that had been inconsiderate enough to try to make room for itself in the market. But he did it in such a nice way! 'Yes, pardon me, Mr. Lettuce Leaf. I hear your daughter was recently married to a Mr. Sun-Ripened Tomato? Truly? Not of the Sun-Ripened Tomato's in my private garden? Is that so? I do hope that they are both very happy. I shall send over a bottle of my finest French champagne. No, it's no problem at all for the newlyweds. Repay me? It's no problem at all... I couldn't possibly accept....... well...... eat you? Well I couldn't possibly....... no I would never dream of offending you. Yes, if you insist. No, it's no trouble at all......"  
  
The artificial sun made a halo around his head, making his silhouette seem even thinner than it was. There was a knock at the large mahogany doors opposite the window, and he turned, slowly and regally as a prince in his antechamber, his chin lifted slightly in a delicately attentive attitude.  
  
"Come in."  
  
A manservant stood in the door and the as-yet-anonymous executive frowned slightly, trying to remember his name. There'd been a number of deaths at the manor recently, which had gotten the superstitious and the tabloids to talking about a "Winner Curse" and had forced him to hire several new staff members to take up the slack. The idea of the curse had become so popular that overnight the mailman had begun delivering good-luck charms, apparently from thousands of concerned and equally superstitious colonists wanting only to guard his kind and generous person from the supernatural dangers of his own house.  
  
It didn't help that a few of these deaths were family.  
  
Or the suspicious circumstances under which they had occurred.  
  
And that reminded him. The butler's name was Byron Constantinople. And he was waiting for some sort of acknowledgement. 'Poor guy. New on the job and forced to deal with an inattentive employer like me. I'll have to make it easier for him somehow.'  
  
"Yes, Byron?"  
  
Byron blinked and his eyes widened considerably at being recognized and addressed so familiarly by Quatre Raberba Winner, multibillionaire and golden son of the colonies. Flattered, awed, and humbled at the same time, he stood breathless for a moment, and then repeated the message he'd come to deliver.  
  
"My Lord, the executives from Global Technologies (1) have arrived and are waiting in the foyer."  
  
"Have they been offered refreshments?"  
  
Byron stumbled, not expecting such an abrupt question so quickly after his first reply, stood confused, petrified for a moment. Quatre watched him with pity, as he came to himself and blushed, answering in an impressively collected voice. "Yes, My Lord."  
  
"And what did they accept?"  
  
This time Byron was ready with an answer, proud to be able to supply this man, less than half his age really, with any information he had. Being in the room with him was like walking into a tangible wall of clear, untainted charisma, and in the grips of this breathless pull he would have given much more than information.  
  
He could see why the intimidating Maguanacs followed this man.  
  
"The ladies accepted iced tea, and the men took hard lemonade except for Rogers who preferred a Cola and Avens who ordered a Bloody Mary, shaken not stirred." The last was said in such a bland, expressionless tone that Quatre smiled. He knew Rogers and Avens from a history of prior deals. Avens was the CEO of the company, a real hard-ass. His first name was Ian and he was so widely known as "Iron Ass" (2) that Quatre had even heard him referred to that way the second year of their acquaintance, after he had left a meeting early for some emergency or other with his mother. He had been quite shocked to hear him spoken of that way, but that was Rogers for you. Rogers reminded him forcibly of Duo, so parallelly Avens should have reminded him of Heero? He'd have to think on that one later. Rogers was a thirty-three-year-old joker, with a cool, familiar attitude towards everyone, and a peculiar immunity to the bad moods of his employer. He was also a new father and a recovering alcoholic, which explained the Cola. In his stressful position Quatre only hoped it would last. Although only the second in command at the company, Rogers was loved by his employees, and if he went, the company would become brittle and probably wouldn't last long under Avens's hard unflinching attitude.  
  
"We'll let them wait a little while and finish their drinks. It will do them good to rest after that long shuttle-ride, help them relax. Please show them into the Red Room (3) ten minutes from now. I'd hate to keep them waiting any longer than that." He turned away again, not seeing the respectful bow Byron offered, or the startled look that appeared in his eyes at the idea of making such people wait. He left thinking his employer a demigod, carelessly playing games with the most influential people of the age, but then he was the most important man alive in the colonies, with friends so high in the social ladder that they were practically kings and queens, if such things could be considered now.  
  
Once alone again, Quatre returned to gazing out the window. His palace on L4 was the most prominent building there was. It contained both his home and his business headquarters, a comfortable arrangement for long-term projects. He could invite over business partners to stay, and they could discuss whatever business they had whenever they felt the need to, without having to bother with the frustrations of hotels. However, this arrangement made some feel obligated to him, and so they chose to stay at the International Dauphin across "town". One of these was Avens. Along with being an aggressive business manager, he was also a paranoid control- freak and couldn't stand the feeling of owing anyone anything. Having made his way up the financial ladder from a lower-middle-class home, he was unable to understand that his decision in this point didn't matter, that Mr. Winner had more space and more money than he knew what to do with. He couldn't understand that the wealthy young businessman didn't keep track of who owed who what, because it simply didn't matter; his money practically made itself, with him only nudging it in the right direction. As it was, if inflation rates remained the same, it would be several centuries before the Winner wealth ran out, and that if he stopped working entirely. But he understood, and accepted Avens's constant distrust as just the natural personality of the man. If that was all he had against him, the man was a saint.  
  
He waited a little longer, straightened his already immaculate tie in a tiny mirror cemented into a piece of modern art on one wall, and tried to push his rebellious hair back, out of his eyes, but it refused and fell forward again. Rolling his eyes, he went back to his desk, found the file on the Yuy Project and reviewed it one more time. It was unnecessary; he knew every word.  
  
The Yuy Project, which he was currently focused on, was a worldwide effort to find practical uses for the spare parts of mobile suits and dolls, the remains of which was a significant detriment to the continued peace efforts, as any madman bent on world domination could build several new fleets out of the spare parts. It was, in fact, just another charity, but a charity of impressive proportions.  
  
And he was the primary benefactor.  
  
There was to be a dinner in a week, which he had sponsored alone, although the arrangements were made by GlobeTech. And at this dinner ($1000 a plate, plus a twelve colony raffle, $100 a ticket) they expected to raise a portion of the money for the project. However, the entire enterprise would cost somewhere around thirty million dollars to complete. And Quatre had agreed, most generously, to donate whatever they could not raise before the night was over. He would write the check at midnight, just after the raffle winner was announced, the grand finale of what was going to be a truly beautiful night.  
  
Checking his watch, he decided he'd made them wait long enough, and strode confidently through the large, ornate doors, his obligatory Maguanac guards disconnecting from the walls to follow him, one on either side directly behind him so that they traveled in a V formation like ducks. He smiled, but didn't say anything. They would have been hurt if they knew he was comparing them with clumsy water birds.  
  
When he entered the Red Room, he shook hands with the various executives as he passed them, inquiring after their mothers and wives and husbands. He made a point of always knowing the people around him, knowing what they cared for, and being as considerate as he could. He didn't know that it made much difference, but an observer would notice how the room warmed up once he entered.  
  
He felt ridiculous sitting alone on one side of the twelve-foot cherry-wood table, facing the six top executives of World Technologies like a war criminal before the tribunal. He shivered and pushed away the thought as an icy lump formed in his chest.  
  
Rogers began the introductions as usual, Avens being far too cold and dignified for that. (Quatre really did like Avens. Quatre likes everybody. He just thought he was kind of pompous)  
  
"Mr. Winner, you remember Ian Avens, naturally, my CEO and Superior in every possible way." Quatre smiled at Rogers's daring. Mr. Avens growled,  
  
"Don't be a moron, Rogers." And Quatre sighed. It was all so familiar. Oh, how he missed it. But it would never come again. And you can't go back.  
  
Rogers only smiled at the rebuke and continued on with the man on Avens's left.  
  
"That is Mr. Barlow, Director of Finances." Mr. Barlow gave Quatre a warm handshake. He knew where the money came from.  
  
"And that at the end is Ms. Augustine, Human Resources Manager." A cold, stern lady with glasses and a sharp nose. She reminded him of Lady Une, before her personality change. 'Human Resources? She must be a nightmare.'  
  
"You know me of course. No forgetting me." Avens growled and Rogers hurried on. It was like a comedy.  
  
"This to my right," Quatre looked to his right and found himself staring into the most beautiful green eyes he'd ever seen. She had red hair, a hundred different shades of red, parted on the side and pulled back, pale skin and dark lashes. She glowed. Quatre gave her his full attention, looking her full in the eye, but trying not to stare.  
  
"This is Ms. Hoden. She's just become a part of our company, with the merger you know." Quatre nodded. They'd been working on that merger for a long time and Rogers was never bashful about giving him details.  
  
"She, actually, is the one responsible for the Grand Dinner this Friday. Thought we'd give the new guys something to do, just to whet their appetites, you know, show them how to get along with the big boys. But well. you should see it. She did just a fabulous job." Rogers was devoted to his wife, completely. He followed her like a puppy-dog and these trips were hard on him. But he loved his employees, protected them, and they loved him back.  
  
Ms. Hoden smiled and blushed, and brushed off Rogers's praise as well as she could, trying to retain her professional composure. It wasn't every day she got to meet the most eligible bachelor of the colonies. Quatre shook her hand and offered his congratulations, and yes, he would like to see it very soon, and he was sure she did a beautiful job.  
  
"And this, you'll remember is Mr. Tull (4). He's in charge of organization." Mr. Tull was a handsome man with dark hair and gray eyes. He seemed nice enough. "Well, now down to business.."  
  
They talked business for the next three hours, finances, inflation, public opinion, and the best way to spread their message. Halfway through, Quatre ordered Byron to bring some iced tea and sodas. It was summer on L4 and it got very warm around mid-afternoon.  
  
By the end of the three hours the executives were winding down. They had all grown tired of sipping their iced tea, and Rogers was building a tower out of the empty glasses. With all the important stuff out of the way, and everyone feeling too comfortable to move, they began to regress into casual conversation.  
  
"Yes, my wife is just thrilled to be going, although the price is steep enough. We can afford it I suppose, successful as we've suddenly become. Don't know when that happened." Rogers smiled around him, and for a minute, Quatre imagined he saw Avens smile back at him.  
  
"She's especially excited to meet you, Mr. Winner." He sighed exaggeratedly and Quatre felt himself begin to blush. However, he determined to retain his composure no matter what was coming.  
  
"Oh, woe on me. My wife, my beautiful wife, Charlene, shall run off with a multibillionaire and our poor poor child, so young, so innocent. But that's all right, I'm sure I could steal her back if I try hard enough. Maybe if we win that cruise."  
  
"Now, now, Mr. Rogers, don't say that." Quatre spoke up, hoping his face was flaming too badly. He smiled. Did Rogers expect him to say something comforting?  
  
"You know employees aren't allowed to win that cruise. There would be a riot. All the donating multimillionaires in their silks and diamonds would stampede right over you and out the door. It would be a tragedy. And think of your daughter!" Quatre smiled softy, innocently. He always managed to look innocent somehow, young, with his perfect English and trusting eyes.  
  
Rogers laughed, saying, "Quatre, you're not half as nice as people think you are. Why, if they knew the truth, they'd feel a little compassion for us poor slobs who have to deal with you, you cruel bastard. I hope your date doesn't mind my wife tagging along, I'd hate for her to be an inconvenience.." He paused, seeing Quatre's surprised look.  
  
"Now, don't tell me you haven't some young lady to cling on your arm, a man like you. Well, you can't have mine. No really!" he said, appearing genuinely surprised.  
  
"Mr. Winner, what are you thinking? There are millions of women who would simply love to be there with you. You're not really considering going alone?"  
  
"Well, I.." Quatre faltered. Rogers looked absolutely appalled. He couldn't believe he was even having this conversation. "There've been several deaths in the family recently, if you'll have noticed." He indicated his dark suit and tie. "And I really haven't had time-"  
  
"No time! Now that won't do! Can't have our spokesman going alone now. Ms. Hoden." Ms. Hoden's eyes widened in sudden fear of being involved in this conversation and Quatre felt faintly hurt.  
  
"Ms. Hoden. I was wondering if you would like to go to the Grand Dinner with a friend of mine. He's handsome, rich, polite, charming, and blushing. That is, if you're not going with anybody?"  
  
"Well I-I-I didn't even-I hadn't thought to be going at all really. It's well. it's just so."  
  
Quatre was horrified, and Avens was beginning to growl at Rogers for taking such liberties with a business acquaintance.  
  
"That's perfectly all right Ms. Hoden."  
  
"Oh no no no no!" She started, practically jumping out of her skin not to anger Mr. Avens, who was looking murder at Mr. Rogers. Rogers was unaffected.  
  
"No, I would love to, but."  
  
"Well, it's settled then." Rogers stood up quickly and snatching the hands of Quatre and Ms. Hoden and clasping them together as though in marriage. Quatre was sure he looked like a deer in the headlights and Ms. Hoden wasn't much better. But her hand was warm and dry. For a minute, he couldn't breathe, just stared at Mr Rogers who he'd just come to realize was absolutely out of his mind.  
  
"You're out of your mind." He hadn't realized he'd said it until it was out of his mouth. He slapped his free hand over his mouth in horror, and Rogers laughed. His other hand, he realized was still clutched in Ms. Hoden's. She stared at Avens, near tears, chewing on her lip like she thought he was going to reach out and hit her. Quatre retrieved his hand and she blushed, and he blushed, and he knew they both looked absolutely ridiculous. Rogers just laughed.  
  
"Well." He said, not very articulately.  
  
"Well. I suppose. I suppose I'll pick you up at seven." He said, feeling just like he was still trapped in puberty.  
  
"All right. I'll be there. at seven.. And you'll pick me up." She was bemused, like the deer that was actually hit by the headlights. Forgetting to separate his etiquette, he bowed stiffly at the waist, turned on his heel and left, feeling like a fool.  
  
'I am a complete fool. I am going to kill Rogers. Omae o korosu.' He was thankfully out of the room when he smiled, but it was shaky and his heart was beating too fast. 'What just happened? How did I just end up with a date? He's a better tactician than I am. He'd planned it all along. I can't believe he called me a cruel bastard.'  
  
"Master Quatre, you look unwell. Do you think you should sit down, Master Quatre?"  
  
Quatre shook his head, although he did feel a little ill.  
  
"That's all right Rashid. It's just been.. a stressful afternoon.. That's all.. Don't worry about me."  
  
"If you're sure, Master Quatre."  
  
"I'm fine." Drawing a deep breath, he filled up his lungs like he was going into battle. 'But the battle's already over and I lost, miserably. How did that happen? No matter. She seems very nice, and absolutely lovely. What am I going to do?'  
  
* * * * * *  
  
It was the day of the Yuy Dinner and Quatre was dressed in his black tuxedo and bow tie. Ordinarily, he would have worn white, but he was still in mourning, no matter what the occasion. Besides, he was afraid he would be confused with a waiter; that sometimes happened when he wore white (and boy, was that embarrassing!).  
  
Now that he'd accepted circumstances, he was actually looking forward to the evening with Ms. Hoden. This was what he did, what he was used to. He knew how to deal with social situations, had been groomed from infancy to be the perfect charming multibillionaire gentleman. It hadn't always been applicable, and he had been forced to blow things up, but that was past, and surely there wouldn't be any mobile suits at the Dinner?  
  
He stood in the lobby of The International Dauphin, where Ms. Hoden and the executives of GlobeTech were staying, feeling perfectly easy although unnaturally aware of the silent stares that followed him as he strode confidently up to the lobby desk, prepared to ask for Ms. Hoden. He held a perfect white rose in his hand, and brought it to his face now and then in an absently graceful gesture.  
  
Prepared to ask the man at the desk to alert Ms. Hoden of his presence, he glanced back toward the grand staircase and lo and behold! there she was, looking like a vision of perfection in a dark red dress, without sleeves, and a neckline that scooped with loose, elegantly modest folds of silk down her chest and back. It cut off just above her knees, graceful and perfect. Her hair was twisted and curled, but seemed, for all that, just as rebellious as his own, and fell in her eyes and in little escapee twists on the curve of her neck.  
  
Turning his back to the man at the counter, Quatre prepared to wait for her near the door, where she would be more likely to look for him. She was with Mr. Rogers and Avens. Rogers had a woman with him, assumably Mrs. Rogers. She was a short woman, with curly blond hair and dimples, and she had her arm around him. His chin rested on the top of her head in a sweet pose of homey romance. Avens had a woman with him also, although Quatre was unaware if he was married or not. Unlikely. The woman was young, with mousy blond hair and a friendly appearance. Her arm was hooked with his and he hovered over her protectively, smiling every now and then. Quatre sighed, contentedly, melancholy. That was what the fighting was for, people like them. His father had disagreed, his sisters (the ones that knew) disagreed, most of the population regarded the Gundam pilots as something of monsters, but right now it was worth it. If he was damned, it was worth it just to know that happy people still existed somewhere not too far away.  
  
He waited as they made their way over, unaware of his presence until they were halfway through the lobby, and then Rogers broke into a grin and waved. Quatre waved back, feeling awkward with the broad gesture, but stamping his nerves into his spine as he was expected to. No use acting nervous; it could only give away your next move, and it set people on edge. Best to just relax, smile, and make them comfortable. People liked people who made them comfortable.  
  
The whole group met him at the door. Quatre kissed Mrs. Rogers' hand, making her blush and titter giddily. Rogers called him a "charming bastard" and Avens rolled his eyes. The young lady with Avens, it turned out was his daughter. He and his wife were divorced for ten years, but he had raised his daughter, and was a very caring and devoted father. Quatre kissed her hand as well, and she, a seventeen-year-old-girl, nodded to him without saying much beyond, "nice to meet you, Mr. Winner". She had inherited her easy discretion from her father, no doubt.  
  
And as for Ms. Hoden?  
  
"You look lovely Ms. Hoden," he said, handing her the rose.  
  
"Oh! Thank you very much-Mr. Winner." She grimaced in consternation at the formality, but Rogers came to the rescue.  
  
"Now, we'll have none of that." He stood between them and then, taking Ms. Hoden's hand, he transferred her to Quatre's possession, saying,  
  
"Marguerite, this is my good friend Quatre Winner. Quatre, this is Marguerite Hoden, a lovely young lady whom I'm sure you'll find a most charming companion. Oh, look at the time!" he said, slapping his hand to his forehead in a gesture of mock surprise.  
  
"I'm not even ready yet, and we've only an hour left! You two go ahead without us; if we're late I'll never forgive myself. Have a good time now." And he and Mrs. Rogers rushed off giggling, but not before he shoved Quatre and Marguerite out the door.  
  
Quatre escorted her to his limo (Rashid sat in the front seat with the driver "just in case") and the footman handed her in.  
  
The time spent in the limo was a blur. They started out chatting awkwardly, but soon found that coolness was impossible with such similar personalities, and it soon felt s though they had known each other for a long time. When they reached the hall, Quatre was almost sorry to share her with anyone.  
  
'Rogers knew what he was doing. Either that, or I'm just disgustingly predictable.'  
  
The footman opened the door and took her hand as she climbed out, and Quatre followed her (without being helped by the footman, of course), and sent a small smile to Rashid as he followed, looking out of place in his red vest combo. The site was pleasing, with sculpted plants and millions of tiny white lights adorning the pillars outside. He suddenly wondered if this was what a normal Senior Prom was like, and hoped his inane thoughts weren't a sign of exhaustion.  
  
He took her arm as they prepared to go up the path to the double doors, and stopped as their arms were twined, suddenly getting a terrible feeling of foreboding, of something dangerous. He glanced at her; she was looking at him questioningly, probably because they were just standing together facing the door. He felt sweat prick his hairline, and his heartbeat seemed to slow and become heavy. He smiled at her shakily, and once they were through the doors, he was back to his usual quiet, charming self. But he didn't forget it and didn't question it. There was danger here, and he would never know what it was until it revealed itself.  
  
They gave their names to a porter and he led them to their seats, at a round table. The room was full of them, eight chairs to each, or four couples. A String Quintet was placed in a corner of the stage, red velvet curtains and bold red lights giving them a surreal appearance. They played soft music, both classic and contemporary, with a harpist in a long red dress and no director at all. Everything was red and white; white tablecloths and red roses, white-clad waiters (toldja so) and thousands of red candles between plates and glasses giving off a mysterious light that flickered, creating whole worlds of shadows.  
  
"You did a lovely job with this Marguerite. It's a shame they'll have to take it down again."  
  
"Thank you Quatre. But of course, you paid for it. It wouldn't be just for it to be anything less than perfect."  
  
Quatre smiled, remembering a certain Chinese man, and then stopped. They were at their seats. Already, the table was full but for their two seats, which were empty. He had just pulled out Marguerite's chair for her when he caught sight of someone familiar, a woman in the seat on the other side of his. She had long pale hair and a smooth gray dress; he saw her from the back, but he knew who it was. And then she turned and looked him in the eye, knowing he was there despite his silence.  
  
"Hello Quatre, Darling."  
  
"Dorothy."  
  
* * * * * * (this is where there would be a commercial break. And about time!* * * * * *  
  
"Hello Quatre, Darling."  
  
"Dorothy."  
  
He felt stunned, like somebody wearing steal gloves had hit him hard in the chest. There was danger here, in this room, with one woman warm and good- natured as a missionary, and another as calculating and superior as a Cheshire cat.  
  
'I have seen the face of evil, and it has forked eyebrows.'  
  
He took his seat beside her, uncomfortably aware of the nearness of their seats and her careless amount of bare skin. The guests were expected to make conversation while they waited for the dinner to be served and the speeches to begin, but he didn't know what he could say to his former playmate/enemy/tormenter that would be anywhere near normal. Whatever he said, it would have to be far from any mention of the war. There was no telling what she might reveal if provoked.  
  
He didn't have to start a conversation, good or bad, because she took the initiative.  
  
"So, Quatre, how are you doing? I heard about your sisters, and I'm very sorry. Khalidah was always very nice to me and I am grieved by her passing."  
  
Whatever he'd expected, this wasn't it. "Thank you, Dorothy. Yes, we're all rather subdued these days. She and Nabila were very good, very caring, very noble. It will be difficult without them." She held his eyes, and he let her, letting her dig into his mind. He was aware of her eyes, usually so mocking, but which now bored into him with a sober sincerity that he had rarely seen in her, but which didn't surprise him particularly. Nothing she did surprised him. He had known her since childhood; they'd been playmates, running as rampant as closely guarded heirs were able to, by which is meant walking across the yard (because dignified children never ran; it was uncouth) unaccompanied by more than a dozen bodyguards.  
  
"How did they die? Forgive me if I offend, but the reports were rather sketchy."  
  
Quatre felt his heart pound. There was something here. Her eyes were watching him too closely for polite conversation. They were almost speaking, themselves. Was it because she was trying to send him a message, or was it because she thought his words would reveal something he was unaware of? Yet, he answered the question relatively casually, wide eyes revealing only his honest sorrow and gratitude for her concern.  
  
"Khalidah was mugged on her way to her car after work. She took the night shift at the hospital because no one else was available. Nabila died in a car crash. She probably didn't feel anything at all. We're thankful for that, at least." He politely didn't go into details, including the fact that all of Khalidah's valuables had been stolen except the Winner crest on her right hand. Nabila's body had been unrecognizable. Even her dental records were a far shot, after she'd been hit by a semi truck on the freeway. But her crest was intact on a cheap iron chain around her neck, a chain she would have never bought, with the generous dowry she'd been given after her twenty-first birthday.  
  
"I am sorry." She said nothing more about it, but continued to stare at him oddly. Disturbed, he turned to Marguerite, and noticed that she was talking to the man next to her: Rogers. And beside the Rogers's was Avens, with his daughter, Gabrielle. He must have shown his surprise, because Rogers gave him a goofy smile and waved. Quatre shook his head, but was drawn out of his musings by a gentle cough to his right.  
  
"Yes, Miss Dorothy?"  
  
"Well, Quatre, (deliberately missing the hint of using more formal language) since you seem to know everyone here, why not do the introductions?"  
  
"Absolutely. Everyone," he raised his voice just slightly, and easily caught their attention, "everyone, this is Dorothy Catalonia, an old friend of the family. Miss Dorothy, this is my lovely date, Marguerite Hoden. She arranged all this you know." Dorothy gave Marguerite an icy smile but didn't move to shake hands. "This is Mr. Dirk Rogers and his wife Charlene." Mrs. Rogers seemed surprised and pleased that Quatre would know her name, and Dorothy smiled at them, notably warmer with this second introduction. The difference made Quatre distinctly nervous. He coughed. "This is Mr. Ian Avens, the CEO at GlobeTech, and my partner in this project, and his lovely daughter Gabrielle. But I'm afraid, I don't know your name?" He directed this to the man beside Dorothy, who seemed almost familiar, but without actually triggering anything like a memory. He was an attractive man, with yellow hair and gray eyes, and a certain flimsiness in the eyes. He was staring at Quatre as though he'd never seen a human being before and couldn't imagine what sort of fascinating creature he was sitting with. It was a friendly enough gaze but Quatre couldn't help feeling he was sitting with a curious child. He kept his face carefully neutral as Dorothy explained.  
  
"This is Edward Noventa. Surely you remember him, Quatre? He showed us how to climb the aspen trees." She gave Quatre a wicked smile, and he felt himself blush. To have such a thing said in front of his business partners! And Edward! He remembered him now. Although Dorothy's distant cousin, he had none of her violent inclinations. He'd been a gullible, confused child, given to sitting in a window seat for hours, just staring at the glass. He'd liked to read, but nothing of any value, and had once vowed to write fiction novels for the rest of his life, to the utter horror of his relations. Whether or not he'd ever achieved that goal, Quatre didn't know, but it was unlikely. His family was notorious for controlling its members.  
  
"Ah yes, I remember. It's good to see you Edward." He caught Mr. Rogers' eye and blushed again.  
  
The evening went on, beautiful. Dorothy continued to embarrass him subtly all evening, but not with any apparent malice. Dinner was served, and it was an astonishing array of dishes, some of which he'd never seen before, but which were all very tasty. He chatted with Marguerite and the Rogers and Gabrielle (who was more social than her father) comfortably enough and tried his best to ward off Dorothy's constant, bewildering attacks, which no one but them even knew existed. And all the while she called him just plain Quatre.  
  
When the time came for his speech, he recited it with all the sincerity he felt, and returned to his seat amid a friendly, polite, round of applause. Dessert was served as they waited for the winner of the raffle to be announced. However, Dorothy began acting very strangely.  
  
He'd lifted his glass to take a sip of champagne when she suddenly grabbed his arm, nearly knocking it out of his hand. With difficulty, he set it down again and looked at her in surprise. She stared hard into his eyes and then started examining his hand. He frowned at her in confusion. He tried to gently take his hand away, but she glared at him, and held in a grip of iron. The other people at the table were staring now, and he was afraid to know what Marguerite was thinking.  
  
"Hmmm. I'm very sorry Quatre, but you have a very short lifeline." He felt his jaw drop, and heard as though from a very long distance, Rogers' badly concealed snort of laughter. "You have some very pronounced marks here for intuition, but apparently, that won't help you." She looked hard into his eyes, almost a glare, and still refused to relinquish his hand. Quatre looked back at Marguerite, noted her pale, nervous complexion, and took back his hand firmly, not caring if Dorothy made a fool of herself trying to retain it. He had grown since their childhood, and now had at least that physical advantage to protect himself.  
  
Ignoring Dorothy's queer looks, he determinedly went back to talking with Marguerite, who seemed somewhat shaken by Ms. Catalonia's continued face- making at her date.  
  
Another strange thing happened a little while later. Avens had just offered Quatre his condolences on the loss of his two sisters when Dorothy suddenly interrupted with,  
  
"Did you know I was going to get married, Quatre? To Marcus Kushrenada, my fifth cousin. But, sadly, he was POISONED," she said the word with such emphasis that Quatre jumped slightly, and set down his glass before he dropped it.  
  
"I had no idea. I'm so sorry, Dorothy." He looked full into her eyes to illustrate his sincerity. But there was no sorrow in her gaze, just frustration.  
  
"Oh, it's not such a big deal. In my family, everybody dies young." And suddenly, she was cool and unaffected. And Quatre felt like a fool.  
  
Just before the raffle was to be announced, Avens, in his dignified manner, proposed a toast. The scattered conversations at the table stopped, and listened.  
  
"I would like to dedicate this toast to this beautiful peace, and to the hope of a future without mobile suits," Quatre felt Dorothy's eyes on him, mocking, burning, but he refused to turn. "and to this lovely night which will so greatly help that goal. I would also like to toast Mr. Winner's efforts in all of this, and Ms. Hoden's, without whom, this night would be a complete disaster." And he laughed, warmly. 'hmm,' Quatre thought. 'I guess Iron Ass has a sense of humor after all.' He blushed as he raised his glass to his lips and then it was gone. It rolled across the table, spilling champagne everywhere. There was an abrupt flurry of sound as Aven's pulled back Gabrielle's chair to avoid the shining liquid.  
  
Quatre stared at Dorothy in horror and outrage. It was an insult to everything Avens had just said, in contempt of the peace and himself and Marguerite. He went completely still, but he could feel inside of him, a tight, unbounded anger, which he had not felt since his return to civilian life five years previous. He pushed his chair back and stood abruptly, watching coldly as Dorothy made excuses, acting contrite and flustered. But it was all a lie.  
  
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I don't know what just came over me. Here, let me help." She dropped her own napkin into the spreading stain, and he watched as it slowly permeated the cloth, soaking it. The table was silent when he raised his eyes, watching him. Even Roger's seemed serious.  
  
"Oh, I'm so flustered. Quatre, would you help me? I feel suddenly-faint." She stumbled out of her chair, and he accepted her outstretched arm coldly, without even a hint of a smile. Turning to Marguerite, he begged, "Please excuse me, Marguerite." She looked afraid, confused, humiliated. She drew a breath, as though to speak, and turned away from him. He bowed to her back and turned, escorting Ms. Catalonia from the hall.  
  
She regained her composure once they were outside, and directed him to a wide balcony, with potted palm trees and Greek pillars. He stood stiffly and watched her while she went to the edge and stared out at L4. He tried hard to keep his patience with her, worried now that he was alone with her. Well, not alone. Rashid stood in the shadow of the doorway, and she ignored him, just as she'd been trained to do from childhood.  
  
"Dorothy." She turned to him, slowly, looking like a ghost in the false moonlight.  
  
"You want me to explain my actions to you, why I've been behaving like a complete fool all night, correct?" She hissed the words, apparently, he realized with surprise, upset with him. He didn't move, but waited, listening.  
  
"Correct?" She insisted, stepping closer to him, bristling.  
  
"Yes. I would like to know how you can justify you behavior tonight, and your reasons for insulting Mr. Avens, myself, and Merguerite just now. They've both been so badly insulted, I'll be surprised if they will want anything to do with me at all after this project is done."  
  
"Do you think I made a fool of myself, for my own pleasure? Do you think I've been making faces at you all night just because I felt like it?" He didn't answer and she didn't expect him to.  
  
"I would like to know why you've brought me out here, and why you've done your best to disrupt this evening at every turn."  
  
"How long have you known that Marguerite?" She uttered the name like a hot brand, biting it off her tongue. He felt himself bristle, at the personal question.  
  
"That is none of your concern. None at all. Have you brought me here to insult me?"  
  
"How long?"  
  
"Since Tuesday, if you must know. But she is kind and well-mannered, and you've treated her viciously."  
  
"I don't care for her feelings. You don't even know her. But you haven't seen what I have."  
  
"Explain yourself, or not, but don't expect your cryptic remarks to fascinate me."  
  
"All right. Then let's get to the point. I saw her drop a pill into your drink, a pill that had dissolved by the time I was able to look for it." She stopped. He was appalled, speechless, and utterly crushed. He believed her, strangely enough, but ploughed ahead regardless.  
  
"Why should I believe you? I haven't seen you in five years, and then you were trying to kill me. Give me a reason."  
  
She looked surprised, and raised both her oddly shaped eyebrows when she replied, in a coldly rational voice, "We haven't always been on the same side, naturally, and at times we've been rivals, or even something like enemies. But I've never hated you Quatre; I respect you. I don't want to see you poisoned by some arrogant little chit who just came into your life at a whim and will leave once you're dead. I respect this peace," she went on, in a lower tone, finally getting to it he felt. "I respect this peace, but I know better than to think it'll last. When the next war comes, I want to face you again on the battlefield or maybe," she paused, and looked at him almost suspiciously. "maybe even fight with you on the battlefield That is," and she smirked, once again her beautiful, battle- ready self, "if you're not a fat old man with thirty children by then. Anyway, if you don't believe me about the poison, it doesn't matter now. They'll have replaced your glass, of course, but you can always get this tested." She pulled a damp napkin out of her handbag, already stuffed neatly into a plastic bag, and handed it to him, although he did not know where he would keep it. It would look awfully strange to take it back to the table that way.  
  
"I've never seen a few of the foods at this dinner, and I've eaten in nearly every upscale restaurant this side of Earth. If I were she, I'd make it look like it was an allergic reaction to some obscure food. That's what I would do."  
  
He nodded silently. It probably was something she would do.  
  
"Shall we go back now? Edward may get suspicious if we talk much longer."  
  
She smiled at him mockingly. "Edward? That's unlikely. When I left he was still asking me to read his palm. I don't think he could be suspicious, poor boy."  
  
Quatre offered her his arm, and escorted her back inside. The night was chilly. He handed the napkin to Rashid. When they got inside, everyone was standing, watching Mr. Avens draw for the cruise out of a silk top hat.  
  
"And the cruise goes to...." He glared at the paper angrily, and then glared at the audience, and then announced "Mr. And Mrs. Dirk Rogers!" The hall erupted in applause and Rogers kissed his wife, which caused more applause. Dorothy joined Edward, and Quatre went onstage to write the check with a flourish, and smiled as he shook Avens' hand.  
  
The night over, he brought Marguerite back to her hotel, ignoring the looks from Rogers. He kissed her hand when he left her at the bottom of the grand staircase, and she watched him with a mixture wistfulness and nervousness as he turned around and left.  
  
He didn't look back.  
  
Someone passing her up the stairs would have heard her softly say, "Oh no." She stood for a few minutes, long after Quatre's limo had disappeared out of sight and then turned and walked dazedly to her room, where she shut the door and didn't come out for two days.  
  
~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~: ~:~:~:~:~: Notes:  
(1) About GlobeTech. I don't know if there is a company by that name,  
but it sounds good, so it's pretty likely that there is. I'd just  
like to say, it has nothing to do with this GlobeTech. This is just a  
figment of my imagination.  
1. I read that in a book once, I think one by John Grisham? Or perhaps  
it was Robert Ludlum? I think it was Ludlum. But I'm not sure. It  
just struck me so forcefully that I thought 'why not?'. But I wanted  
to give credit, because I'd feel like hell otherwise.  
2. The Red Room, like in Jane Eyre. I liked that book. It was nice.  
But this is just a conference room with a red wood table and red  
abstract paintings on the walls. If you didn't know, Islamic people  
don't keep pictures of plants or animals because they're considered  
idols. So abstract is a good idea.  
3. Here's an idea. I'm going to fill my story with references to other  
stories. I just read "Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant" and I  
decided, that this character is going to be like Cody Tull who always  
travels around organizing things for his company. But that's all.  
He'll never be in the story again, so it doesn't really matter.  
  
Huh.. all said and done, this thing is 17 pages long. Sorry if it's just super-boring, but it all had to be explained. I'm sorry, and I hope I haven't lost too many people with this one. Anyway, please review, this took a lot of work, a lot of time, and a lot of caffeine. 


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